The Lone Eagle's Son
by Adventurchris
Summary: Tintin embarks on a journey for his real name and his parents. Along the way he uncovers exciting secrets, the truth of his past, and a girl with a boyish name who is kidnapped from the 21st century by a suspicious group of men.
1. Chapter 1: The Boy is Kidnapped

Hey guys! I originally went by the pen name setsunari, but I decided to come with a new identity and story. It's been a long time since I've dealt with Tintin, but I've begun to fall in love with the intrepid boy again! Enjoy.

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The falling sun set ablaze the sky, creating a million shades of pink, red, orange, and yellow. That was the last view the nanny appreciated. She was a fairly old woman, into her late forties, and her mouth seemed to dive inward into her face as her chin stuck out strangely compared to the rest of her features. She was stout and plump, and adorned a simple periwinkle dress. Her blue eyes matched her dress.

She closed the windows of the nursery, nudged the blanket up snugly to the baby boy's neck, whispered "sweet dreams, little Charlie", fondly pecked his forehead, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Little did she know that a man of a sickeningly white complexion and beady black eyes waited for her to leave the room of his target, fidgeting and mumbling under his breath of "damned wealthy people" and "leaving their children to strangers". The woman had forgotten to lock the window, giving the man an easier entrance. Slowly and steadily, he pushed the windows open. The ladder below him was creaking and swaying under his weight until it ceased its sound as he carefully climbed onto the window sill two stories up the building, hopped in, and took out his note of ransom with a long, skinny hand.

The baby woke up from the man's movements but watched the scene calmly and sucked on his left thumb with content.

The greasy-haired man approached the infant with a snarl on his face, as if observing something gruesomely unpleasant. All he felt was pity and disgust for the little thing. "You poor, unfortunate baby," he mumbled with a hoarse and gravelly voice, as if he had swallowed sand. "If only your twin had taken your place instead. Maybe then would you would have death as mercy."

Not too roughly yet not too soft, he carried the baby out of the crib. "Now for you to go across the world and live a life of an orphan and suffer a misled life. Oh, pity, pity. That will be the last and only thing to comfort you through your future hardships, boy."

The nanny hummed happily while she made her way back to the nursery thirty minutes after the man disappeared with the infant. She laid her eyes on an empty crib and open windows. "Must've been a strong draft for them to open," she said. She walked to the father's study room where model planes and shelves of books of adventure decorated the grand room to ask if he was with the baby. The nanny's eyebrows furrowed as she spotted him at his desk, clicking away on his typewriter unfortunately by himself with a soft jazz tune playing on the monograph. He stopped typing and warmly smiled when he saw her at the door.

"Ah, Mrs. Gow! Is the dinner ready?" Mr. Lindbergh said.

Charles Augustus Lindbergh was a tall and robust man, and was well into his twenties. His dark brown hair had yet to bald, but his hairline abnormally receded from his forehead. He also had a strangely permanent tuft at the front of his hairline. Lindbergh was embarrassed with this odd quiff, and consequentially he desperately kept it down with layers of hair gel before appearing in public. No one would notice this, however, because his sky blue eyes shone with a sense of permanent excitement and its beauty would steal the limelight. His lips were of a dollish pucker, not too thin yet not too thick, and his chin was sharp, with a feint dimple in the middle which would deepen when he smiled.

She opened her mouth, paused, and rethought her words. "I was just wondering if you were with baby Charlie."

"In fact, I haven't, ma'am. Is the baby not in the nursery?"

"No he isn't," she replied. "So he must be with his mother then!"

Mr. Lindbergh nodded. "I suppose so. I'll go check on my wife. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Gow…"

The nanny stepped aside from the door as he exited his study and made way to the bedroom. His wife was in bed because of their second baby who was five months old and causing much pain. Lindbergh knocked, waited for a call in which he could come in, and slowly turned the knob. She lay in bed on top of the blanket with a book in her hand. There was no baby.

The nanny peered over his shoulder and gasped at the sight. "Oh dear, Mr. Lindbergh, what do we do—"

"Anne, you aren't with Charlie?" he said with a quivering edge.

She frowned and gradually put her book face down on the bedside table. "No. What's happened?"

"Mrs. Gow says the baby hasn't been in the nursery," He started. The nanny nodded in agreement. "…and we're both not with Charlie. I'll go search around the second floor for him. Mrs. Gow, search downstairs and outside if there's no luck."

They searched and searched until the sun set and the birds become eerily quiet as if anticipating the ending of the hunt. Mr. Lindbergh finally came back to his final destination, the nursery, and frantically searched every nook and cranny until he noticed a crumpled note on the windowsill.

Lindbergh's eyes grew wider and wider and a drop of sweat rolled down his wide forehead. "Anne, Mrs. Gow, come to the nursery…"

In a few seconds, the two women came rushing in and panting. He showed them the note demanding for a fifty thousand dollar ransom with a quivering hand.

"Our baby's been kidnapped."

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If you don't know, the case of the Lindbergh baby IS real. He was the son of the famous aviator Charles Lindbergh and writer Anne Lindbergh, so look it up if you're curious. I'll update soon!


	2. Chapter 2: The Men Turn Time

Jesus, I didn't know I'd get so many reviews on the first chapter! Thank you so so so much! Your reviews are my fuel. Here is one of the long chapters! Be blasted off with a ton of words.

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_January 10, 1948_

"Pardon me, sir! Oh, pardon—Crumbs, I beg your pardon—Pardon—"

Today was Tintin's birthday, yet he felt no different. Struggling through a field of grazing men and women who were taking a stroll down the flea market, he noted that it was a painfully slow stroll.

He did not become impatient however (he was particularly good at controlling his emotions, one of the rare things he was proud of) and fondly greeted back to passerby. His popularity had seemed to soar above the clouds after he had gone to King George's formal introduction dinner for his daughter Elizabeth.

Tintin loved Monday mornings when the sellers brought out all of their items to sell (as it was the last day of the week to do so) and the buyers were at either work or at home, leaving the market in quiet and peaceful surroundings. He had the place all to himself! What a dream. But this time, the market seemed to prove otherwise.

"Milou, are you doing fine back there? Do you want me to carry you—" The terrier grunted midsentence and leapt forward deeper into the crowd with defiance. Tintin sighed and bumped into another man. This had to be a world record for bumping into people within an hour. "Excuse me, sir…"

The traffic came to a halt, Milou had gone off somewhere, and the January air was freezing cold. Attempting to keep himself from boredom, Tintin looked at a mirror to his right to see if anything had changed about him. He might have grown a few inches, but his quiff still stayed the same. He ruffled his hair up, pushed it down, yet the ignorant tuft still stuck back up. He groaned.

"Happy birthday, Tintin. You're eighteen now…" he told his reflection.

xxx

_January 10, 2015_

"Whoa, take it easy. We can talk this out—"

"No—my girl, s-she lost—"

Caleb rolled her tongue over her teeth in frustration. She had just arrived to Belgium from America a day ago for a journalism internship (free of charge! Jackpot!) over her winter break, yet she already ran into trouble. The old man frantically came up to her and spoke in a strange tongue (she assumed it was Mandarin), tears rimming his wrinkled eyes.

There was no one else around them besides a couple of cooing pigeons and a closed museum. She was about to explore the huge dome and write an article about its contents, but instead came to dark windows and a locked door. It was Saturday though! Everything's supposed to be open on Saturdays!

"Can you take me to where you last saw her?"

He nodded and pulled her arm with him. She held her camera to her chest, restricting its movement, and put her crumpled up "notebook" (a couple of compiled papers stapled together) in her pocket.

Her parents had heavily disagreed with her decision of being a journalist. Though the job was declining and her English wasn't exactly Shakespeare material, she just couldn't give up the notion of traveling the world and seeing new places. College opened so many opportunities for Caleb to the point where she didn't even know where to start. She first wanted to be an artist, then an astronomer, then an FBI agent—heck, she probably wouldn't even stay with journalism by next week! But, as Caleb always comforted herself with these words: it didn't hurt to try it out.

They had jogged into an alleyway where a pink pinwheel was dropped on the floor. It was mashed up as if a hoard of cows marched through the place. "Is this your girl's?" Caleb pointed.

He nodded so hard his head seemed like it would roll off his shoulders. She heard faint talking from behind the building to the right. "Wait here, okay?" Caleb said, putting her palms up to him to show him what she was saying in case he hadn't understood. He whimpered and nodded.

She slowly made her way behind the building and peeked. There was no one there, but a badly rusted door was propped open. "Christ," she breathed. A surge of fear ran down her spine. Should she stop now and call the police? No, it would be too late then. She dialed the number anyway and told them the location.

"It's Labrador Street, second turn. Yes, a man said his daughter has been kidnapped. I hear voices behind the alleyway, I'm certain he's not lying. Please come quickly. Thank you."

Caleb gulped, shoved her phone back into her pocket, tiptoed to the door, and slowly made her way through the entrance when she saw that it was vacant. The distant conversation became louder as she progressed down the dark corridor, up a flight of stairs, and she felt herself shaking. Be calm, Caleb, she thought. She quickly dialed 112 on her phone again just in case and had her thumb ready to press when she ran into an emergency.

A raspy voice came from the end of the second floor corridor in another room. "Get the engines running. The deadline is in five minutes."

"Yes boss!"

What were they starting? Did it relate to the girl? Should she just call the police again and tell them to hurry? Caleb was frantic and exasperated between her two choices. She remained stuck at her grounds for another couple of minutes until she heard the man with the hoarse voice speak again.

"It's powered up and finished. Get to the control panel now. We're blasting her off in thirty seconds."

"B-blasting her off?!" Caleb whispered. She had to do something. What if they were going to detonate her? Someone was about to die! She couldn't let this go on. Immediately after calling the police again, she barged in to the room.

Caleb ran in. The first thing she saw was the girl tied down to a chair and holding a parcel. They really were going to detonate her!

She showed them her phone and made it clear that the police were coming. "I'd turn that thing off and run away if I were you," Caleb yelled over a strange buzz coming from somewhere she couldn't figure out. It had become terribly loud. "The police are coming here this instant!"

"No," a man rasped from the side of the room. "Once turned on, it won't stop. Calling the police is useless, girl. I advise you to stay out of our way."

"Ten seconds, boss!"

What in the world was happening?! She stood there with a blank mind and a full expression of panic.

"Five seconds!"

If it were a bomb, they all wouldn't be staying in the room! Caleb was horribly confused, but there was only one thing on her mind then.

"Two seconds!"

Save the girl.

"One second!"

She held her breath and braced for whatever was to come.

"Ready for take off— hey, kid, get OUT! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING—"

Caleb really didn't know what she was doing. Snatching the parcel out of the crying girl's hands, she used all of her energy to push her away from it. Caleb was ready to hear a bang and feel her body shredding apart from the blast, but instead the humming from the machine grew stronger. And brighter. She twisted her neck, looked up at the source, and noticed something too bright to figure out how it looked like.

She heard sirens over the racket of the machine overhead right before she began to feel numb.

The last thing she saw was a man with black, beady eyes and milky white skin, snarling at her with rotted teeth.

"We can't stop it, boss! She's going!"

His eyes glinted. "Let her. She will do the job fine."

When Caleb let go of her breath, it was immediately taken away by a strong gust of wind. She lost sight of everything around her as it seemed to be fast-forwarding through a movie strip—it began to take her hair, her head, then her torso, and finally her whole body. Everything was passing by her eyes so fast that she didn't take notice the absence of her body.

Caleb was never familiar with bombs, but she knew this was not how it felt to explode.

And suddenly like a boulder from the sky dropped and hit her head, reality came crashing down and her bottom went down along with it, banging the floor with a loud thud.

xxx

"AGH!" a shot of pain chased the blood that climbed back up to her head and in result created a massive headache. It took half an hour for the intense pain to subside as she sat in the middle of the room.

As Caliber recovered, she observed her new surroundings. The overhead machine she had seen was most likely some sort of transfer, like a wormhole. Instead of feeling fear, she seemed intrigued.

The furnishing of the room was a bit old fashioned and all in order. Every single thing was in place and tidy from the picture frames on the walls to the table in the middle of the room with three books stacked perfectly on top of the other. She slowly stood and almost toppled over from dizziness, arms spread out for balance and knees precariously bent.

Caleb glanced around while her grogginess began to drain away. This place was beautiful! She forgot about her situation while she admired a typewriter collection. This person must be a big fan of the past. She walked around the room and looked down at the parcel still in her hands. It was blank and was wrapped in worn out stock paper. Turning it around to its back, a name was written out with blotched and big handwriting: To Tintin.

She raised her eyebrows in interest. "Huh."

Her mind eventually wandered back to the fancy apartment. She entered another space which seemed to be the study room, with countless of pictures neatly sprawled around the walls and a number of maps that filled in the space. Every picture had the word—Caleb figured out that it was a name—Tintin, as they seemed to be newspaper clippings. It was the same name on the parcel!

Tintin uncovers an old Egyptian tomb. Tintin and Haddock discovers lost treasure beneath ocean. Tintin assists Interpol, agents graciously thank him. Tintin visits King George's palace for Princess Elizabeth's introduction. (Is this the start of Elizabeth's and Tintin's romance? Turn to page 3 for more inside information!)

Jesus Christ, this boy was famous! She guessed Tintin was the boy whose face was shown an almost every front page. He seemed stern even with his high brows and glistening eyes.

Caleb snapped back in surprise when she heard the front door open. It was probably the men who sent her here to snatch back the parcel! Her breath hitched. She frantically scanned the room for a formidable weapon to defend herself and found a long wooden stick lying next to the mahogany table. Why the hell does this person have a stick?

Gathering up what was left of her courage, she braced herself for the future.

xxx

"C'mon Milou, don't groan at me like that," Tintin breathed. He stood in front of the door of his flat, hands on his hips and frown directed at the rather distressed dog. No matter how much the terrier grunted and whimpered, Tintin didn't know what was wrong.

"Get out of my way, Milou. I'm expecting a call from the Captain around now and it's fairly important business!"

He gave up and dragged Milou away from the door by his hind legs and unlocked the door.

There was a soft thump in his study. Quickly halting and ceasing noise, Tintin frowned and took out a gun from under the hollow of the false phone he had made for emergencies after the break in for The Unicorn. It certainly came in handy now.

He slowly made his way down, gun steadily pointed forward and Milou following behind him. Jumping from the untimely ring of his telephone, he become startled and rushed the last length of the room yelling, "Put your hands in the air!"

It was a girl with sharp eyes and a round face, and a long neck and slim stature, wearing strange clothing while standing rigidly with Tintin's stick pointed directly at him like a spear. She spoke with an American accent, tinged with a region he did not know, her voice deep and clear. "Are... Are you Tintin?"

The phone kept ringing.

This might be a trick to discourage me of my weapon, he thought. Grasping the gun tighter, Tintin glared at her. "Before you tempt me to shoot you, who are you and why are you in my flat?"

"Tintin, relax, just put down the gun and I'll put down the stick- if that helps you I mean, I don't think a stick can do any harm compared to a-"

He blasted at the girl with sudden impatience. "I ask you one more time, who are you and why are you in my flat?"

Fear flashed through her brown eyes and she flinched from the harsh tone. "I-I'm Caleb and I don't know why I'm here."

He loaded the gun.

"Trust me on this, Tintin! I really don't know why because it's a long, long story and know you don't trust me right now, but let me explain myself before you shoot. I found myself in this place after a weird series of events and I'm trying to look for an answer why as well. You clearly have the upper hand with the gun in this situation right now, so let me explain. Please."

He continued to glare, but a change of mind seemed to make his eyes gleam a little brighter than before, and she had seen it.

"Please," Caleb pleaded.

With a sigh from the nose, he nodded. "Come to the living room. We'll discuss this."

She gave an encouraging smile and walked out of the study room hugging a parcel. What was it?

"So," Caleb started, briskly sitting down. "I'm here in Europe for a period amount of time for a journalism internship, and-"

His eyebrows shot up. "You are a journalist?"

"Yes. I was at an abandoned building because a man asked me to come and help him get his daughter back. It seems she was not only lost, but she actually was kidnapped or something."

"Why didn't you just call the police?"

"I did, but when I came into the place they held her, they said something about blasting her off. I thought it was a bomb or something, because she was holding a weird object, but the men wouldn't have been in the same room if it was. They would know better to stay near an exploding bomb."

"Who are they?"

"I wish I knew, but I don't. I became irrational because they were counting down so I didn't look at their faces well. I thought the thing she was holding was something dangerous, so I pushed her away from it."

She rustled the package in her lap and handed it to him. "I took this parcel out of the girl's hands. It has your name on it."

He transferred the gun to his left hand and picked up the parcel in his right.

"It wasn't the parcel that was dangerous though, and I only figured it out after I saw a machine over my head that was meant for the girl. It grew so bright, and," she paused, hesitating. He removed his eyes from the parcel and up to Caleb's face. "I-I think it somehow transported me here. I've never seen this room in my whole life."

He looked at her plainly if not with disbelief. "You are saying that their device has brought you here unknowingly?"

"Unless," Caleb started abruptly. "Unless it's done something more than that."

He slightly leaned towards her as if it would give him an answer. "What is it?"

Caleb recognized the structure of the room and the buildings that over strung the view from the window. It seemed as if the abandoned building had remodeled itself within the time the machine had warped her. All of these old-time furnishings, practically ancient newspaper clippings from the 1940's, and the most obvious of all, Tintin's weird puffy pants and too formal casual attire had sent her odds spinning about her guess of just being transported into a different place.

"Is… Is this on Labradour Road?"

Tintin frowned. "Er, yes. Yes it is. Why?"

Her eyes flitted away from Tintin at the answer. Could this be true?

"I know this sounds really over the top, but..." She looked around the room. "Are there hidden cameras? Is this some sort of joke? Did that machine make me faint and some people quickly put these backdrops in? This is impossible… Crazy..."

He sat down on the opposite couch and sighed. "This is not a game, I assure you."

She breathed heavily and looked at him with wide eyes. "I looked at your newspaper clippings. The ones with your face on the front page. I thought they couldn't... I thought they couldn't be you, because the date was impossible... I..."

Her eyes were downcast now. "What year is this?"

Tintin knew what she was deluding to. Her clothing was already strange itself, not noting her different range of vocabulary from what normal Americans would speak. "Do you mean that-"

"What," she interrupted. "Year is this?"

Her brown eyes were wide and her lips were just open enough to see the glint of her teeth.

Tintin gazed at the planes of her face. "It's 1946, Caleb."

All was quiet.

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It seems like writing in a hospital bustling at every corner really does become a great atmosphere to write. The atmosphere has altered the way I wrote Caleb. Please review and look forward to upcoming chapters! I will update every Tuesdays from now on, if not earlier.


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